


dizzy

by bittersweetlapse



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Flirting, M/M, UT, Vanilla, in which finn tries to write smut, its in chapter 8 in case you were wondering, papyton, undertale - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-04-27 06:23:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5037280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittersweetlapse/pseuds/bittersweetlapse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Papyrus tries to find out what Mettaton wants with a loser like him. After all, why would someone so pretty talk to him willingly?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (tw: r-slur used in chapter one, and possibly in later chapters. please note that im writing this from the headcanon that papyrus is autistic, which i am as well, so it's a pretty personal thing for me.)
> 
> based partially on [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5035639)! appearances are based off of [this drawing.](http://toddnet.tumblr.com/post/131393159270/his-secret-is-the-manly-bandana)

You aren’t sure of a lot of things, and love is one of them.

You’ve always kind of imagined it to be a thing for other people. For _normal_ people. You know, the ones that walk with two or three or four friends in the school hallways, or go out to movies on Saturday nights with said friends. And maybe along the way with their friends, they realize that they can’t stop staring at each other. And then they kiss later in the evening and that’s the end of that!

You know that love is only for people that aren’t _retarded_. The other day, Sans went fallow red when he heard someone shout that to you in the halls. God knows you’ve heard it enough times, though. You know what it means, even if Sans wants to pretend you don’t.

Sans squeezed the pen in his pocket so hard it cracked, then, and turned to you, saying, “Hey, bro, tell me if anyone ever says that to you again, okay?” And you nodded, pretending that you would, even though you know better than to bother Sans for little things like that. 

They happen all the time, to someone like you. Someone who’s just a little slow and a little too eager, or something. 

So love isn’t for you--not for your bright red bandanna and the jeans that you fold every evening, tucking them neatly into the dresser so you can wear them again the next day, for days on end. Not for your favorite comic books that you always forget people don’t want to hear about, no matter how enthusiastic you are about the character development, or how politely you listen for their replies.

You’re just not like the other people--not like the pretty people in the movies, who fall in love so quickly, like little stones trickling down a river. You won’t ever be, and you’re okay with that. You’ve long since learned that crying about it won’t help--Sans can hear you through the walls, anyway, so you try to be quiet about it--and no amount of wishing on the pretty, sparkling stars for a best friend to talk to will work. 

The next day at school, Sans has to go to the office in the morning, probably because he never shows up to class. You know this means you have to walk to class by yourself, which is fine, considering that you’re a junior and know the school’s layout like the back of your hand. But Sans worries, his round face scrunching up, like he always does when you tell him that you have to do something alone.

“Sans, I’ll be fine,” you insist. “I know how to get to class by myself.”

Sans’ blue eyes stare up dourly at you. “I know you do. I just don’t want anyone calling you any more names.”

An office lady passes by. She has to crane her neck to look up at you, which makes you blush slightly. Something about her gaze makes Sans turn around, a warning look flashing in his eyes.

“Oh, good morning, Papyrus!” she says cheerily, her voice loud and clear in the tone people always use when they’re speaking to you, for some reason. And then, after missing a beat: “And Sans, you too!” 

You wave politely to her, pretending like you know why she knows your name. It’s okay, though. She’s probably part of your 504 coordination plan or something. But Sans really doesn’t like her being there; you can see his fists clenching under the sleeves of his overlarge and ratty blue hoodie.

Another pause. “Ready to head to class, Papyrus?” she asks finally, tapping her pencil on her miniskirt. Her smile is kind. Adults are generally just really nice to you, if not a little condescending. 

You put a pacifying hand on your brother’s shoulder. “Yeah, I guess.”

Sans grits his teeth and nudges you with his fist. “Hey, Paps. You do good today, alright?”

“Of course.” You flash a grin at him, hoping he’ll loosen up, and wondering why the office lady is bothering him so much.

When you set off for History, glancing behind you, you notice the lady’s smile slide off her face as she stares Sans down. Oh boy. You hope Sans isn’t in too much trouble.

You pass through the halls safely, but there’s a small scuffle as you get into class. Near your desk, there’s a flurry of movement, and a few students lean back from some kind of knot, snickering. You notice why: Someone with long blond hair is reclining at your seat, his Doc Martens placed in front of him on top of the table with a certain delicacy.

Snickering in groups, when you aren’t included, (which you almost never are) is never a good thing. You walk up to the desks timidly, hearing more laughter behind you. Why? What did you do this time?

“Uh….hey,” you start hesitantly, aiming your question at the blond. “Excuse me, but that’s--uh, that’s my desk...D-did you maybe make a mistake?”

The guy at your desk turns around, and you feel your face grow slightly warm. One look tells you everything: this guy is rich, richer than you and Sans by far, with perfectly conditioned blond hair, a Roman emperor nose, and jeans so tight you decide you’re not going to look there any more. He smiles when he sees you, his eyebrows raising as his eyes surreptitiously travel the whole length of your tall body. And then he licks his lips, and you don’t know why, but the giggles behind him erupt again, making your whole face hot now. 

“Well, hey there, darling,” he says, in a smooth voice you can only describe as a purr. His accent is glamorously British, and so heavy it almost sounds fake, or at least practiced. He pauses, twisting a shiny strand of hair with a thin finger. 

“This is your seat, you say? Well, we could always share.”

The laughter is loud enough now that you can tell it’s at your expense. Normally, you’d be embarrassed, but for some reason, though, you’re instead transfixed by the guy’s polished skin, like he scrubbed it, and his perfectly manicured fingernails. He looks so perfect, like a movie star. Why is he here, and why is he even deigning to talk to you?

“U-uh….” is all you can manage. The full meaning of what he said hits you, and you feel the blush heat your cheeks more as the guy tilts his head, smiling delicately.

“Cat got your tongue, gorgeous? Don’t worry, I don’t bite.” He winks and turns to the crowd behind him, who giggles on cue. “Unless you’re into that.”

This is way out of your comfort zone and you kind of want everyone to disappear so you can look at his eyes a little more closely, the vivid green drawing you in. He’s easily the prettiest guy you’ve ever met, let alone had the good fortune to talk to.

You blink once, twice, hard, and suddenly you’re talking without thinking first. “Uh! I’m Papyrus! What’s your name?!”

The guy smiles again. You feel a little dizzy that he’s still choosing to talk to you at all. “Well, pleasure to make your acquaintance, Papyrus. I’m Mettaton. Strange name, I know, but don’t hold it against me.” He flips his hair dramatically and grins. “Now, are you quite sure you don’t want to sit down? There’s plenty of room.”

It takes you a minute to process what the patting motion with his hand on his lap means, but when you get it, you stare at the ground, your face now so hot you’re sure you’re the laughingstock of the class. You laugh nervously, but Mettaton doesn’t seem to reciprocate.

“Oh,” he pouts, biting his bottom lip. “Not taking me up on my offer, eh?” He stands up and stretches gracefully, moving a seat over. “Sorry for spooking you, darling. Just kidding around.” He winks at you again.

You scurry over to your seat and sit, feeling gazes from behind bore into you. You try not to stare into space, but you’re so flustered, it’s all you can do to not be drawn to Mettaton’s presence like a magnet. 

It’s a moment before you register a slim white hand resting on your desk. Turning towards it, Mettaton is leaning towards you, smiling slyly.

“Care to tell me about yourself, sweetheart?” he purrs, and it’s in that moment, meeting your eyes again, that you think you’re a lot more sure of love now.


	2. Chapter 2

You bite your lip roughly and wipe your palms on your jeans, trying to stop your hands from growing clammy. “Uh….” You’ve already said your name, how else do you normally introduce yourself? People don’t normally initiate conversation with you, so you’re a little tongue-tied. 

_Don’t sound stupid, don’t sound stupid._ “I...I really like comic books,” you say. “And...action figures?”

Mettaton stares and blinks for a fraction of a second before throwing back his head back and laughing. It’s also very practiced-sounding, throaty and sending shivers down your spine.

You can’t tell if he’s laughing at you or with you. You nervously giggle along, wondering what this is leading up to. 

“Oh, you are just precious,” he coos. “I like this one.” He leans forward and brushes the bare skin of your arm with his fingers, sinking the nails in ever-so-slightly and making goosebumps break out on your limbs. Some part of you wants him to stop touching you, but the other wants to inhale the faint scent of flowery perfume and unwashed skin for the rest of the class, the rest of the day. 

No one’s ever treated you like this before. No one’s ever been so nice to you, let alone _flirted_ with you.

Mettaton licks his lips again lightly, a smile crawling up the corner of his mouth, and you can’t stop staring. You know you’re probably being laughed at right now by other people, but you don’t really care, especially because Mettaton is lifting your bulky hand with one of his own and grazing the back of it with his lips in a light kiss, and you kind of feel like you’re going to pass out--

_“Papyrus?”_

Wait. You know that voice! You whirl around and see your older brother standing in the doorway, clutching a pass that he must be delivering during his free period or something.

You’re not sure if you’re glad Sans interrupted the two of you or not. You glance over at Mettaton and see that the smile is dripping off his face to be replaced with something far more poisonous. 

“Ah, hello, Sans,” he says evenly. “Is that for me, by chance?”

Sans has a look of utter confusion that is quickly giving way to well-concealed rage. You have a feeling Mettaton won't be able to tell how tightly your brother’s shoulders are tensing up now, or how he grinds his teeth so tightly together he gets migraines from it later, because Sans conceals his anger behind a mask of complete indifference. 

“Actually, yeah,” he says, smiling slightly. He lopes over and hands the note to Mettaton, but all three of you pretend to ignore that the little green slip of paper is crumped from a clenched fist. “Office trip for you, superstar. See ya.”

Mettaton gracefully turns his head away from Sans, back to you, and smiles with blinding white teeth, and it’s like a fireworks show has gone off in your central nervous system, snaking up and down your spine. 

“Well, I certainly hope I’ll see you around, darling,” he says, and stands up, stretching his delicate limbs. Grabbing his black leather bag, he winks at you one last time before exiting the room. 

You’re watching him leave, trying to sort through your muddled swamp of emotions, when you feel a hand nudge your shoulder. Sans is standing next to your desk, rubbing his temples.

“Jesus, what a tool. You okay, Paps?” he asks.

You blink. “Mettaton’s not a tool. He was really nice to me.”

Sans rolls his eyes. “Bro, that guy is bad news. He’s only nice to you because he wants something from ya.”

Now you’re confused. “But--”

“Papyrus,” Sans insists. “Trust me on this one. Stay away from that guy.”

Your mind is a whirlwind of confusion. You understand that sometimes people are jerks, and that they don’t always say what they mean. But why would someone so polished flirt with you if he didn’t mean it? You don’t really understand love, but you do know that people don’t usually like to pretend they _like like_ other people. 

You’ve never met someone as confident as Mettaton, who’s willing to flirt with someone like he did with you. But at the same time, you trust your brother implicitly. He’s not usually wrong about people. He always sticks up for you.

Sans notices your silence and brushes the hair out of his eyes. “Look, bro. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

He’s right. Sans always has your best interests at heart. Reluctantly, you nod. “Okay.”

“Thank god.” Sans heaves a huge sigh of relief. “You really had me worried there, man, when I saw him getting all up in your space like that--” He breaks off and forces a smile. “Disgusting, right? Who the hell does that guy think he is, kissing your hand in front of everyone, right? Totally gross.”

You’re completely shocked at how much this comment bothers you. You want to say something, but instead you force the words down, feeling awful about it. “Y-yeah. Totally.”

Sans claps you on the back and twists his torso around, smiling as it cracks loudly. Turning back to you, he announces, “Well, got that joker out of the way. Now I gotta deliver more messages, ‘kay? Hang in there, Paps.”

You wave weakly to him as he exits the room. 

Now you hate yourself for wanting to see Mettaton again.


	3. Chapter 3

The class period trickles by, but Mettaton doesn’t return from his trip to the office. Bitterly, you wonder if Sans staged something to get him to leave you alone.

Your brother’s a trip, that’s for sure. Cares about you like the dickens, but a lot of the time he’s way overprotective. Like that one time when he found out that you had blisters on your feet because you had to walk home from school (an hour-long walk if you miss your bus) in ill-fitting shoes. One second you’re taking off your shoes and grumbling about the pain, the next he’s spent a quarter of his paycheck on a brand new pair of Heelys for you. 

Not, of course, that you didn’t appreciate it. But Sans just doesn’t know when to quit. You know he always likes to be the hero, even if he acts completely indifferent and even patronizing about life in general. And that involved you, Papyrus, being the baby of the family, especially since your parents were long gone. 

You shake away the unpleasant thoughts and try to concentrate on your classwork. Math is a little easier for you than words, mainly because of your jumbled mess you call a brain; in math, the answer is always the same. In math, the numbers don’t repeat their mistakes, like historical figures do, and the answer isn’t an opinion, like it seemed to be most of the time in English. In math, the numbers won’t make you feel like an idiot for not getting it; you just learn the answer and do it right next time.

In math, you’re _smart._

A few minutes later, someone enters the room. Your first, pathetic hope is that it’s Mettaton, of course, but you know you shouldn’t even look behind you, because you’ll come off as overeager, stupid, dizzy for a guy who didn’t even know you existed until twenty minutes ago--

You whip your head around like an overexcited puppy. Sure enough, it’s him in the flesh, waltzing into the room like he owns the place. 

He isn’t looking at you, and you’re not the only one staring, either. Feeling a surge of embarrassment well up, you turn your head back to your desk, forcing yourself to focus on the worksheet.

He sits down next to you, the slight waft of perfume tickling your nose. You feel your face go red, but you try not to pay extra attention. Mettaton was probably just joking around earlier, and if you tried to talk to him now, he’d look at you like you were garbage. That’s how you’ve found it to be with most people that talk to you, anyway: they smile and say good morning, make small talk with you in class, and the next day act as if you don’t exist. No, it would hurt your hopes just a little too much for him to give you the pariah treatment like everyone else.

Mettaton clears his throat. Out of the corner of your eye, your pencil just drawing scratching the air above your paper now, you can tell he’s ogling your worksheet, probably because everyone in this class knows you’re good at math. 

“Well, don’t leave me hanging, darling. Did you miss me?”

You inhale sharply. He’s talking to you again? You try to look him in the eyes again and fail spectacularly, your gaze instead landing somewhere along his exposed collarbone. His shirt is thin, sleeveless and cropped at the stomach even though it’s the middle of October. 

Maybe Mettaton notices how surprised you look, because he chuckles, his eyebrows knitting together. “Oh, did I startle you? Poor thing. My apologies.” 

“I-It’s okay,” you get out, trying not to stare too hard at his model-quality torso. You aren’t looking at his face, so it’s a surprise to you when his hand brushes yours and he leans forward. Now you meet his eyes with a start, the green almost too bright to look at. You can barely smell the peppermint Altoids on his breath.

“You have lovely eyes,” he murmurs. You’re seized with the sudden intrusive urge to kiss him, right on his pale, thin lips, but you brush this thought away before it makes you go red again. _That’s not okay. That’s something you do on a_ date. _You barely know him._

And then, before you can stop, the words spill out of your mouth.

“W-why...why are you talking to me?”

Mettaton blinks, tilting his head and leaning away from you. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

“It’s just…” You struggle to put into words the feeling of unease lingering around you, trying not to sound too bitter. “You don’t really want to be my friend, right? You’re just...being nice, out of obligation?”

Mettaton pushes his glossy golden hair away from his eyes. Maddeningly, he’s barely smiling. “Would you prefer I leave you alone?”

“No!” you yelp, loudly enough that a few people look over curiously. You stare at your clasped hands under the table, your face burning, and add in a lower volume, “N-no...I like talking to you. I just…wasn’t sure if you were making fun of me.”

When you dare to glance at his face again, there’s a strange expression there. Somewhere in between pity and amusement, you think.

“Why, Paps,” he says finally, with a smile that could light up a chasm, “You’re too sweet for me to do such a thing.”

You’re completely taken aback. No one but Sans calls you “Paps”. No one, no one. It’s the pet name that your parents called you, back when they were there. 

If Sans was here, you know he’d be angry. But then Mettaton smiles again, and his pale fingers drift across yours ever-so-slightly, and you suddenly decide-- _Sans isn't the boss of me._

The bell rings then, startling you like loud, sudden noises always seem to do. Mettaton glances up at the ceiling and then back at you, parting his lips slightly in lieu of a question.

“Well then, I’ll be off,” he pronounces. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he winks at you. “Catch you later, gorgeous.” 

He’s gone before you can articulate anything close to a response.


	4. Chapter 4

For the rest of the school day, you’re in some kind of daze, which is why when you exit the school, you shade your eyes against the sun wearily and therefore miss the several shouts behind you.

“Papyrus! Safety patrol guy! Hello, anyone in there?!”

You turn around in slight alarm before you realize that it’s just Undyne. Oh, thank god. You know she’d land in the “friends” pile of yours, but she’s pretty much the only one. Still, Undyne’s really nice to you, teaching you how to do every martial art in the book, attempting to help you learn how to cook (you two are the only ones, save for Sans, in the after-school culinary class), and just being the hyper-aggressive sisterly type in general. 

“Finally awake, eh?” Undyne grins widely and slings her muscular arm over your shoulders. “Howzit goin’?”

You don’t want to talk about the Mettaton/Sans debacle, especially since just thinking about Mettaton licking his lips is making your palms sweat. Not to mention Undyne would never let you hear the end of it.

“I’m fine,” you say shortly. “Just thinking about some important things.”

“Oooh, impo-rrr-tant bus-i-ness.” Undyne draws out the syllables and leans on you, cackling. You almost topple over from the sheer ratio of muscle mass to body size. “Tell me, huh?”

“...Do I have to?”

Undyne stops walking, which makes you jerk back, and subsequently almost fall face-first into the parking lot. “Well, shit, buddy. The Great Papyrus, keeping his mouth shut? Now you _gotta._ ”

You try not to feel slightly bruised, even though you should be used to Undyne’s blunt manner by now. “‘The Great Papyrus’ is a little hurt by your statement, and tries to brush it off.”

Undyne rolls her eyes, her long red ponytail swishing back and forth as she puts all her weight on a hip. “Aw, come on, man! I was just kidding around.”

Seeing your solemn expression, she huffs a long-suffering sigh. With a dramatic movement, she hefts an imaginary spear into her hands, like she always does when you two are just messing around, and pretends to hold it to your throat, grinning. This act garners you two a few strange looks. 

“Undyne, captain of the Royal Guard, politely insists you tell her exactly what the hell’s got your cape in a knot!” she demands, then pauses. “And offers a bribe of a hangout sesh after school.”

Funnily enough, you’re starting to feel a little better. Feeling a smile creep up on your face, you say, “The Great Papyrus ponders the deal and has chosen to accept.”

Undyne’s really the only one that tolerates your childish love of roleplaying. _She’s really just a big softie,_ you think, as she grins widely and pretends to sheath her spear before continuing to walk to her blue Prius. 

“So, I spared you,” she whines. “Now tell me what’s up.”

You sigh. “So, uh--”

Undyne whips her head around, the sudden movement surprising you and cutting your words off. Unfortunately, her attention has been captured by a round and scrambling figure trying to cross the road a ways ahead of you. 

“OH, HEY, ALPHYS!” she yells enthusiastically, jumping off the sidewalk and stamping her feet on the ground. She waves her hands like a stranded sailor at the figure, who has turned around. Even from a distance, you can tell the other girl is flustered. “TEXT ME LATER, HUH?!”

People are now openly staring, and to you, it’s mortifying. “Undyne, please--”

Undyne pauses in her “fighting preparation” and looks around, seeming to notice the stares. “SORRY--uh, I mean, sorry.” She sheepishly adjusts her ponytail, turning her enthused motions into a quieter search for her car keys. “What were you saying?”

“Well…” You pause as Undyne’s car chirps, and pull open the door to get in. You’re so tall, you have to duck your head considerably just to fit in the tiny hybrid. “I just wanted to ask you, uh...so what do people do when they like you?”

Undyne crawls into the front seat, slams the door, and starts the car, neglecting to put on her seatbelt. As she’s jerkily backing out, she throws you a withering look. “Well, of course I don’t know what _guys_ do, silly. But with girls…” She sighs and casts her glance out the window, smiling slightly. “Sometimes they flirt with you, sometimes they pretend that you don’t exist.”

You try to wrap your mind around this concept. “So they like...touch you a lot? And call you cute names?”

Undyne looks at you strangely. “That, uh, could be bad news, champ. Does Sans know about...whatever this is?”

You feel your expression harden. “Yes, he’s aware.”

“Oh, well then, you got nothing to worry about!” Undyne beams at you in the review mirror. “That guy’s protective as hell. If someone’s bothering you, he’ll sort it out, right?”

“Yeah.” You can’t seem to muster up any other response other than monosyllables.

After you two have been driving in silence for a while, Undyne brings up the topic again. “You still seem preoccupied.”

“I just…I just don’t know how to be in a relationship,” you confess. “Someone was flirting with me, and I feel really stupid for not knowing how to react.”

“Oh, that’s easy!” Undyne crows. Leaning towards you, making the car skirt slightly to the right, she pronounces, “Just be really, really confident.”

That sounds like the absolute last thing you’d be able to do around Mettaton. “But...what if I’m not?”

“Fake it ‘till you make it, man.” It sounds unbelievable, but Undyne looks incredibly serious. “Trust me, confidence looks good on everyone.”

You ponder this. “Would you be able to help me?”

“Oh man, I was wondering when you’d ask!” Undyne is now grinning from ear to ear. “Let’s go to my place. I can fix you right up.”

Now you’re smiling. “Okay! Can we cook, too?”

Undyne cackles. “Sure thing! As long as you don’t break any windows this time.” She taps your shoulder. “Just be sure you call your brother, okay?”

You nod and reach for your Iphone. It’s a very old model, but you always keep it meticulously clean, and so far you haven’t broken it yet. Going into your recent calls, you find Sans and tap his icon.

He picks up almost immediately. “Hey, Paps. What’s up?”

“I’m going to hang out with Undyne today,” you tell him. “I probably won’t be back home for a while.”

There’s a slight rustling on the other end. “Well, okay. You know the drill: I won’t be home till late again, but there’s still a burrito in the fridge, I think. Maybe some lettuce.” 

“Okay.” You sigh. “What are you doing out, anyway? Lazing around like usual?”

Sans chuckles on the other end. “Just for you, baby bro.”

“Don’t call me that!” you huff indignantly. Undyne giggles from the driver’s seat.

“Whatever, chief.” You can practically hear the smile in your brother’s voice. “Catch you later. Have fun.”

By the time you hang up, Undyne is pulling into her driveway. “You’re lucky to be so close to your brother like that, you know.”

“Yeah, but he’s annoying a lot of the time.” You pull a face as you take off your seatbelt. “He’s really overprotective, and never does anything around the house. He’s always out and about.”

Undyne has an odd expression on her face that you can’t quite place. “Eh. Just don’t take it for granted.”

She’s right, but all you can think about is the venomous glance that he gave Mettaton when he saw you two interacting. _He could stand to leave me alone for once. I’m not helpless._

You don’t say anything.


	5. Chapter 5

Undyne shrugs at your comment and gets out of the car, unlocking the door and ushering you inside into the first room of her house, which is the kitchen. It’s still a little trashed, with tomato sauce on the counter, a real spear leaning on a wall, and burn marks in the general vicinity.

“Okay. First step to being confident is to look it,” she announces. She turns and gives you a sideways glance. “Like, look at you. You’re slouched over, hands in your pockets, you talk with a s-s-stutter--”

You pull yourself upright, resting your hands at your sides, crestfallen. “I didn’t know I was that bad.”

“Oh, relax,” Undyne says, looking slightly guilty and clapping you on the back as you two meander over to the TV. “You’re not a lost cause, Papyrus, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“So, what can I do?” you ask, adjusting your bandanna around your neck self-consciously.

“Like I said. Fake it ‘till you make it.” Undyne beams and slaps her fist into her palm. “Then you can knock ‘em dead!”

“Okay, so…” You clear your throat awkwardly. “Uh...Hello. How has your day been?”

Undyne groans and slaps her forehead. “No, no. Say it with courage!”

“What does that even mean?”

Undyne sighs, leaning on the countertop. “Like...when we’re sparring and stuff. You have no problem being confident then, right? So just act like you’re talking to me.”

You clench your teeth, filled with determination to get this right. “Hey, Undyne! What’s up?!”

You think you were a little loud, but Undyne claps her hands excitedly. “Atta boy! You just have to be more casual. I know you know how to talk to people, man. You have lots to say. Just be confident when you say it, and people will automatically be more interested.”

“But…” Just when you thought you were on the right track, now you’re getting confused again. “Whenever I talk about things I like, people just get bored.”

“Then MAKE ‘em care!” bellows Undyne. Her volume makes you jump back before she catches herself, and apologetically lowers her voice. “It’s because you’re too worried about what they think, buddy.” 

As you’re pondering this, Undyne’s face lights up again. “Oh! I got it. Why didn’t I think of this before? Talk about what the other person likes, too.” 

“Which one do I do, then?” Your head is spinning. “Talk about what I like, or what they like?”

“It’s a balance! A balancing act. Don’t think about it too hard.” Undyne is beaming at you like she expects you to do something, but you’re starting to feel like you’re no better off than when you started. You’ve never felt dumber than right now, when someone is being nice enough to explain how to interact normally with people, and apparently you can’t even get that right.

There’s a silence between you two before you respond. “Y-yeah….thanks, Undyne.”

“No problem, pal!” Undyne slaps you on the back, hard, making you double over. She grins and waltzes over to the kitchen table, staring angrily at the tomato sauce on the table. “Want something to drink?”

“I’m okay,” you murmur, sinking into the couch. You’re a little tired already, like you usually are after the day’s social interaction, and know you need to eat something to get your energy up. Honestly, though, you kind of just want to go home so you can think about what you need to do next. 

***

You spend two hours at Undyne’s, in which you two attempt to bake a cake (Undyne stirs with the electric mixer so hard, it breaks), watch a few episodes of Mew Mew Kissy Cutie (which you know Undyne only watches because Alphys does), and do some sparring. Every so often, she’ll bellow out “Now tell me about your favorite breakfast cereal! Put your heart into it!!” and the like, forcing you to come up with some confident-sounding dialogue on the spot.

However, your heart’s just not really in it, and Undyne can tell, because she offers to take you home after only two episodes of the anime. It’s really not much farther from her house to yours, but you’re ready to accept any offer so long as it means she won’t keep grilling you on being confident. 

“Thanks for the help today,” you tell her as she pulls into your driveway. 

“Aww, it’s no problem, man,” she replies nonchalantly. “You got this! Charm their socks off.” The Prius whines in that electric car way as she backs out and races down the hill you live on.

You let yourself into the house, calling, more out of habit than necessity, “Sans, I’m home!”

He’s not here. Figures. You shrug and take off your shoes, setting them neatly next to Sans’s haphazard pile of socks. God, why hasn’t he picked them up yet? You’ve reminded him over and over!

It’s often like this, when you come home and Sans isn’t there. You know he works two jobs, one at KFC and the other at the late-night dive Grillby’s, but you also know that he doesn’t spend his free time well. That is to say, he never does his homework, leaves the house a mess, and generally treats life as if it’s one big, bad joke. 

You shake your head. You know you’re only in a bad mood because your sensory issues with eating have been acting up again, so you put your backpack down in the living room, walk to the kitchen, and open the fridge. There’s hardly anything there but leftover fried chicken buckets, but you take the burrito Sans mentioned earlier. You have to whack the microwave hard before it flickers on again.

After you nuke and swallow down your food, you find yourself thinking on what Undyne had tried to convey to you. _Fake it ‘till you make it._

You’re not sure how good you’re going to be at this tomorrow, but god knows you’ll give it your all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all, sorry about the shortness of this chapter and the conspicuous lack of mettaton in these last few chapters--filler stuff does have to happen @_@ rest assured, i'll get back to the actual shipping next chapter. 
> 
> in other news, the amount of comments and views this little fic has gotten is incredible!! from the bottom of my heart, thank you to everyone, especially those that told me that they related to having an autistic papyrus; it really makes me happy to know y'all can relate. c:


	6. Chapter 6

The next day, your heart is pounding staccato all the way from when you wake up until you walk into class. You’re so nervous, your hands are shaking noticeably, so much so that Sans notices even though he’s half-asleep. (He still makes you breakfast in the mornings, when he’s there.)

As your older brother walks into the room, he notices your outfit first--shoot, shoot, why hadn’t you thought of that? He scans you, his gaze narrowing. 

“Hey, Paps. What’s with the formal wear?” he asks, casually enough, but there’s a very slight edge to his voice. An edge that suggests you can’t be trusted to make decisions on your own. 

You swallow. What you’re wearing would probably hardly equal “formal” in most people’s books, but for you, that means your newest pair of (used) jeans, a collared white shirt that you’ve tucked into your pants, and a belt, not to mention your new Heelys. (You’ll be darned if those little wheels don’t make you look cool.)

“I just wanted to look a little different,” you retort. “Just for fun.”

You can tell by the glint in Sans’s blue eyes that he’s onto you--at least, that’s what your anxiety is telling you. But he doesn’t say anything about Mettaton. All he says is “Oh, cool, cool. Want some waffles?”

You spend so much time looking in the bathroom mirror, practicing your confident grin, that you almost miss your bus. Luckily, you peel yourself away from brushing your teeth for the third time, and wheel your way down to the bus stop, scrambling onto the bus after the other students.

Your first period is Algebra 2. That’s your class with Mettaton. By the time you get off the bus, your palms are sweating so bad, you’re just wishing you could evaporate, forgetting this whole confidence thing. Nevertheless, as you see Alphys scuttle in front of you, falling into step with you, you know that you have to start practicing.

“Hey, Papyrus,” she says, her nasal voice wavering a little as always. “H-How’s it going?”

You pause, remembering what Undyne had told you, and stand up straighter. “It’s good! I’m doing great. How about you?” 

Alphys blinks. “O-oh...I’m doing fine.” She has the start of a smile on her round face. “Something about you seems different, or am I w-way off?”

“I’m trying to be more confident,” you admit, and then grin. “Hey, Alphys, it might help you, too! You should ask Undyne to give you confidence lessons like she did for me.”

You’re not _that_ oblivious. You know exactly how this will make Alphys feel, and sure enough, her face turns pink, to your satisfaction.

“U-uh...well....” she gets out, her buck teeth sticking out as she smiles sheepishly, “I’m not really sure….that will help, but…” She trails off, noticing your grin, and smacks you lightly on the shoulder. “Oh, stop it!”

You giggle and say “See you later,” as Alphys drifts towards the science labs. Then you take a moment to assess your performance. Alphys noticed, and that’s something! _And,_ you reflect, _it wasn’t that hard at all, not like I expected._

You arrive to class in high spirits. Mettaton’s sitting in the seat next to yours again, chatting idly with a group of sighing girls. Today, he’s wearing a black muscle tee and acid wash skinny jeans, dark pink and black lipstick traced around his mouth. As you come in, he turns his head and raises his eyebrows at you, smiling. 

Going against your base instinct, which is to avoid eye contact like the plague, you meet his eyes and smile back. 

Mettaton looks a little surprised, to say the least. As you sit down at your seat, he swivels his body towards you (to the disappointment of the people he was talking to) and gracefully plants his elbows on your desk.

“Someone’s looking dapper today,” he comments. 

Your ego swells. “Gosh, you really think so? Well, I did dress up for you. I had to get on your level.”

 _Did you really just say that? You really just said that._ You feel your face burn, and look down at the ground, sure Mettaton is going to laugh at you and never talk to you again.

A moment of silence passes. You dare to look up at his face again. He looks….pleasantly surprised?

“Oh, I see you’ve been practicing your lines,” he purrs, grinning. “Although it’s always nice to hear from a fan.”

Okay, _now_ you’re blushing. You are, indeed, a fan. “Well...we can’t be friends if I don’t know how to talk to you, right? I had to work on that.”

Mettaton’s smile is now sending shivers up your spine. “I think you’ll find our exchanges to be more... _enjoyable_ this way.” 

The way he says “enjoyable” insinuates something far different than pleasantries, but you’re not getting off this train now. On the contrary, you’re starting to have fun, the adrenaline coursing through your veins. “Can you elaborate on that?”

“There’s a mouth on this one!” Mettaton exclaims, putting a hand over his painted lips in mock surprise, and leaning closer to you. His fingers drift to your forearm, circling under your wrist and brushing the thin skin there lightly. “I like the new you, darling.”

The amount of snickers you two are getting from other people is bothering you and making your heart beat incessantly fast, but you brush it off, knowing that you’re just new at this whole “relationship” thing and will get better with practice. Still, you can’t think of anything to say.

Fortunately, you don’t have to say anything, because Mettaton stands and stretches, not-so-subtly showing off his arms, and gestures lightly to you. Without getting permission from the teacher, he waltzes out of the classroom.

Class hasn’t even started yet and you’re already skipping? You furtively glance around, but the teacher, on closer inspection, is a substitute that seems to be questioning the location of his briefcase. Casting a brief, downcast look at the completed homework on your desk, you take the opportunity to dart out the door and follow the click of Mettaton’s boots down the hall. 

“Uh...where are we going?” you ask him as you two fall into step.

Mettaton shrugs, flashing you a smile. “I’ll admit, I didn’t think that far. Coffee?”

“B-but...school just started.”

“And you’re here with me, instead. What a pleasant turn of events.” His smile is dazzling, playfully mocking your apparent goody-two-shoes nature. “Come on, I know a good place.”

You don’t dare tell him that you’re really not hungry at all, or dwell on how disappointed Sans would be if he saw you now, skipping class to hang out with a hot guy that he obviously disapproves of. Instead, you remember Undyne’s advice-- _Fake it ‘till you make it_ \--and grin widely. “Sure!”

“That’s the spirit!” Mettaton takes your hand in his, his skin washed-out against the light brown freckles of yours, and starts off walking down the hall. You’re so surprised that you almost fall flat on your face before hurrying after him, blushing.

“So, Papyrus,” he starts, “tell me a little about yourself.”

Now that there’s no one around, you take the opportunity to look at him a little more closely. Mettaton’s makeup is heavy and flawless, but his cheekbones are more sunken than you’d realized, the circles under his lurid green eyes hard to disguise. Then you realize you’re staring at him instead of answering his question, and quickly snap back to.

“Uh…” This is exactly what you were preparing for all day yesterday! Luckily, you have an answer that you thought of earlier. “Well, I really like...superheroes. I know that sounds dumb, but like...the Marvel comics are pretty cool.” You swallow hard. _Talk about what you like, but what the other person likes too._ “What about you?”

Mettaton tilts his head in thought. “Well, when I was younger, I was fond of comic books too, but now I’m more inclined to just listen to music. I’m on the drama team as well.” Insert smile. “Have you ever been to one of the school plays?”

“Oh, yeah! I’ve been on the tech crew a couple of times.” You neglect to mention that you were merely seated on lights on one show that needed only one spotlight in the entire performance, and afterward, you watched the entire cast and said tech crew make plans right in front of your face, without inviting you. “The drama team here is pretty good!”

“Thanks, darling. They couldn’t have done it without me.” Mettaton winks. Subsequently, you nearly trip on the edge of the curb as you two cross into the parking lot. “Kidding, but still, I have been in a lot of productions. I was a child actor, the like.” He jingles car keys from his pocket. Hearing a trill that implies a car has been unlocked, you turn towards the sound.

Not surprisingly, Mettaton’s car is jet black and expensive. Is it even legal for a high school senior to drive a Porsche? Sans and you are lucky to share a beat-up, grayed-out Chevy that’s probably older than you. You feel like you aren’t even worthy of touching this car.

Mettaton must have noticed your hesitation, because he throws you a comforting half-smile. “Don’t worry, she’s not as clean as she looks. I promise.”

You cautiously open the door and peer inside. It smells like bubblegum and fruity air freshener. Mettaton wasn’t lying; gum wrappers, hamburger packaging, receipts and old tickets to the movies are scattered across the floor. There’s a hot pink, short jacket splayed in the back seat, and various makeup tools in the cup-holders.

You take a seat on the soft leather and click your seatbelt on. Mettaton sits behind the wheel and shuts the door, turning the key. The car comes to life with a rumble, and you two pull out of the school parking lot. 

Mettaton drives around for a bit before finding a tiny little coffee shop, claiming that it’s his favorite place in the city. (It seems a lot like Starbucks to you, but you don’t say anything.)

You can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten food that wasn’t cold KFC or leftover burgers. But when you walk inside, it takes just a glance at the fancy menu to remember that your wallet is basically empty. 

“Uh, Mettaton,” you say timidly, tapping him on the shoulder as you two wait in line, “I don’t have enough money, so you just order, okay?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Do you want something?”

The truth is, you’d love to try a glitzy drink, but you’re not about to drop seven dollars on one. “It’s okay...”

Mettaton gives you a withering look. “Sweetheart. Tell me your order before it’s our turn, okay? My treat.”

You end up ordering the smallest size of some kind of herbal tea (caffeine will mess with your meds big-time). Mettaton flashes a dazzling smile at the pierced cashier and rattles off some kind of coffee with at least three adjectives in front of it. You catch “soy” and “gluten free” and off-handedly wonder if it’s even coffee at that point.

Once your orders are served to you on a tray, you’re starting to realize this place is considerably nicer than a Starbucks. Mettaton seems proud, leaning over the table, warming his hands on his ceramic cup.

“I only come to little indie places like this,” he states, taking a delicate sip. “They’re the only places that support my dietary requirements.”

Okay, you know that Starbucks serves soy milk. Is he making stuff up for attention? You hate to doubt Mettaton like this, though. You decide you don’t know what you’re talking about, and nod.

You two make pleasant conversation for an amount of time you can’t pin down--mostly because the guy’s so _distracting._ You can hardly go a few phrases without him idly brushing some golden hair away from his eyes or something similar, and even though it’s a simple movement, you can’t stop staring. 

Someone this pretty shouldn’t, by all rights, be talking to you, because you’re a loser. But the more you chat with Mettaton, and the more he seems genuinely invested in what you have to say, the more you’re starting to realize that maybe, you’re not as pathetic as you thought. 

Basically, everything goes better than you could have dreamed. You leave the little shop an hour or so later in a daze, feeling like you’re walking on clouds. 

“Damn,” Mettaton mutters as you two pull into the school parking lot, checking his phone. “First period’s over, gorgeous. I don’t want to get you in trouble for your next class.”

“It’s okay,” you say. At this point, you couldn’t care less, unless by some miracle Sans found out about you two cutting class, but even he isn’t that protective. “I trust you.”

Mettaton turns and looks at you in the eyes. There’s a slight smile on his face. 

“You really are a dear,” he says fondly. He reaches over and tucks a spray of curly hair behind your ear, making you blush. He seems to hesitate before leaning closer to you, and it very quickly occurs to you that the gap between your faces is closing, but you’ll be damned if you’re going to do anything about it. 

You can smell cologne and that fruity shampoo again, and your face is going hot from your cheeks to your ears, and Mettaton is kissing you, and you’ve closed your eyes, trying to move your lips in a semblance of knowing what you’re doing, but it’s okay because he rests one hand on your shoulder and leans into you, and god, you don’t know what you’re doing but it feels better than anything else--

When you two break away, it’s Mettaton that ends the kiss. He’s smiling widely, his lipstick just barely smudged. 

“See you later, darling,” he says slyly, opening the car door and gracefully climbing out.

You watch him leave for a solid minute before remembering how to tear your eyes away from something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TFW YOU SPEND HOURS ON A CHAPTER AND IT STILL FEELS SHORT,, IM CRIE
> 
> (thanks for reading!!)


	7. Chapter 7

You might as well be floating on clouds for the rest of the day. When you return to class, the teacher hasn’t noticed your absence, it seems, and Mettaton is chatting with his other friends, paying no attention to you. Which is fine, because you’ve got more than enough on your mind.

You still can’t believe he kissed you. Does this mean you have a boyfriend? You’re almost a little afraid to find out. But you know you have Undyne to thank, for getting your sorry butt in gear. Confidence must have really been the thing you were missing!

After school’s out, you remember you have a dentist appointment today, so you go to the library to find Sans. He’s usually there after school because he has a crush on the librarian, Ms. Dreemurr. Everybody just calls her by her first name, Toriel, probably because she looks young enough to be a student.

Sure enough, Sans is chatting with Toriel as you walk into the library, a dreamy expression on his face. When he sees you, it takes him a moment to switch into his more standard “tough big brother” mode.

“Hang on, Toriel, I got another pun,” he says with a sideways grin. He turns to you, leaning on the countertop, as Toriel giggles in the background. “Hey, bro. What’s up?”

“Just wanted to say hi,” you reply. “Also, didn’t we have a dentist appointment today?”

Sans blinks and fumbles for his smartphone, presumably checking the calendar. “No,” he proclaims after a minute. “That’s next week.”

“Wait, really?” Now you check your calendar too. Sure enough, he’s right. This is weird to you because you never forget dates. You wonder if it’s because of Mettaton, and feel your cheeks heat up slightly at the memory of the kiss again.

“Papyrus?” Sans is snapping his fingers at you impatiently. With a jolt, you realize he’s been trying to get your attention. “You okay? You seem really out of it. Do you need a snack?”

“I have leftover pie,” Toriel adds, grinning. “If you eat in in here, I promise I will not tell.”

You remember that it’s important for you to eat because your stimulant meds pretty much disable your stomach from registering hunger, and nod. Toriel hands you a Tupperware container of pie with a small plastic fork, clucking like a mother hen. “Eat up. You’re too skinny, Papyrus.”

She’s like a mom, or an aunt of some sort. Even though you know you need to eat, it’s difficult to keep the sweet butterscotch/cinnamon flavored filling down, if only because of your sensory issues. But you really don’t want to make it seem like you dislike the pie (you don’t), so you choke it all down.

After you eat, Sans grins widely, a sure sign that he’s got another pun coming. “Well, Paps, I guess it’s time for us to... _spaghetti outta here._ ”

You groan good-naturedly at the pun. Toriel cackles into her baggy sleeve, loud enough that a couple of other students look over in alarm. “Good one! I’ll be seeing you two.”

Sans smiles and winks, and you follow him out of the library. 

“Man, I love that girl,” he says in an undertone, sounding slightly dazed. He winks at you. “Don’t tell her I said that, though.”

“Of course I won’t.” You’re a little miffed that he even considered that option. “Don’t you trust me?”

Sans looks alarmed. “‘Course I do, Paps! I’m just joking around. I know you wouldn’t tell.” He slings an arm around your shoulder. “Say, has Mettaton been bothering you lately?”

The blood drains from your face. You know you’re an awful liar, and you also know that Sans discovering that Mettaton had kissed you, meaning you two are dating now, was tantamount to dropping out of school on your part. He has so much faith in you. Knowing that you’re dating someone he doesn’t approve of...he’d be awfully disappointed in you, to say the least.

You swallow the lump in your throat, staring at the ground. “No, he hasn't been.”

When you dare a look at Sans, his expression has darkened. “For real?”

“Yes!” you yelp, too fast. “Really, Sans, I’m fine, I swear.”

He blinks as you two cross into the parking lot. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you reply, trying to inject determination into your voice. 

Sans shrugs as you two reach his white pickup truck. “Well, as long as you’re okay, bro. Just say the word if you’re not.”

You feel relieved, albeit terrible for not telling the truth. _Although,_ your mind whispers, _you didn’t technically lie._ You said you were fine, and that Mettaton wasn’t bothering you. Both of those are true statements. You’re not lying--

God, you need to eat something else. You feel queasy and clammy and generally awful. As Sans unlocks the car and you climb in, you buckle into the front seat and stare out the window, hoping it’ll make your bad feelings and nausea go away.

Sans hauls himself into the driver’s seat and turns the key, and the car wheezes to life. “We’re homeward bound, little bro,” he proclaims, reclining his seat far enough back that it’s probably illegal. 

The ride home passes by in a blur of loud radio music. When you get home, Sans goes straight to his room, throwing his socks in the pile near the kitchen along the way. You don’t even have the energy to tell him to bring them up to his room. 

“Well, see ya later,” he calls down the stairs at you. “I’m leaving for Grillby’s in a few hours, but I’ll be here if you need anything.” 

You nod wearily. It’s rare that Sans is even home, so you should consider yourself lucky, but you can’t help thinking that you wish he wasn’t, so you would have more time to process today’s events.

As you go to heat up the leftover fried chicken in the fridge, your phone buzzes in your pocket. Pulling it out, you blearily squint at the Facebook banner notification and--

_MTT Blook has sent you a friend request!_

You’d recognize that eyeliner job anywhere. The blood rushes to your face as you stare at his stupid profile picture, which is a mirror selfie decorated with filters and emojis. Mettaton’s tongue is hanging out of his mouth in a way that you can only describe as lewd. _Hot,_ you admit to yourself, _but embarrassing._

What else are you going to do? You unlock your phone and click _Accept._

You’ve barely plodded over to retrieve the chicken from the microwave when your phone buzzes once, your signal for email or for some other messaging apps (Undyne favors Kik). Sighing, you open your phone again, but what you get is simultaneously both better and worse than spam mail.

MTT: Hey, darling. How’s it going? ;P

You stare at the Facebook message, feeling your heart start to race. You really cannot deal with this right now. Sliding the phone away from you on the table, you eat the soggy fried chicken slowly, trying to muddle through your thoughts. 

Okay. So Mettaton has kissed you. That means you’re now dating. But do you feel the same? You’ve never been in a romantic relationship before, and the details have always seemed a little murky to you. You guess that even if you don’t feel 100% in love with him now, feelings will blossom forth as you continue to date. But what will dates be like? Mettaton is a very forward person. Will you be able to keep this confidence up?

You decide you’re just overthinking things and being silly. Love is complicated. You’re complicated! You know that you do like Mettaton, and that he knows what he’s doing more than you do.

You pick up your phone again and start to reply to Mettaton’s Facebook message, in all caps (as is your habit) before you realize this is kind of stupid.

Papyrus: HI!  
Papyrus: I mean, hi.  
MTT: Hehe. Hello, sweetheart ;) What’s up?  
Papyrus: Uh, nothing much. I’m just having a snack.  
MTT: Lovely~

You stare at the phone screen for a moment, unsure of what to say next.

Papyrus: Um...can I ask you a question?  
MTT: Of course, Paps. What is it?

That nickname again. When did Mettaton pick it up? You’re pretty sure only Sans has ever called you that. But then again, maybe that means Mettaton thinks your relationship is extra-special? You blush a little, trying to remember to stay confident.

Papyrus: Er...so...like...not that I didn’t know this beforehand, but I’m just making sure…  
Papyrus: We’re dating now, right?  
MTT: That’s what I was hoping ;)  
MTT: Is that all right?  
Papyrus: Yeah, yeah! That’s great!  
Papyrus: I was just making sure.  
MTT: Hehe, you’re funny, doll~  
MTT: Say, do you want to come over sometime?  
MTT: Tomorrow I’m free ;P  
Papyrus: Oh, uh…  
Papyrus: Sure, I’d love to!  
MTT: B)  
MTT: Thanks, darling, I can’t wait to see you~  
MTT: Oh, rats, my cousin’s calling me. I have to go.  
MTT: See you tomorrow, sweetheart <3

Setting down the phone, you wipe a few beads of sweat off your forehead. You _fervently_ hope that Mettaton’s idea of a date is similar to yours, otherwise you’re going to have a bad time.

You’d better shave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long to update!! the good news is ive mapped this fic out now, so it's officially gone from "glorified one-shot" to "glorified one-shot with a planned ending". B) thanks for waiting and enjoy!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THIS ONE HAS SMUT. i hope all u sinners like some vanilla sex 
> 
> (also sorry for taking so long to upload)

You’re sixteen minutes into Grease, and Mettaton keeps joking about something called “Netflix and Chill”--which doesn’t really make any sense to you, since he had the Blueray DVD version on a special shelf in his room anyway--when it happens. You two are splayed on the couch, your long legs awkwardly crossed on the cushion, dwarfing Mettaton’s petite and curvy figure by a lot more than you had realized when he was wearing high heels. 

_Grease seems sweet,_ you think. The lead, Danny Zuko, is an idiot, and you don’t particularly care for Sandy, either, but Mettaton seems so enthusiastic about them that you hold off from any snap judgements. But then--

“I always used to wish I was a part of the Pink Ladies,” Mettaton says conversationally, and then swings his arm around your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You inhale sharply, feeling your cheeks go red. Keeping your eyes glued to the screen, you feel Mettaton rest his head on your shoulder. He lets out a little sigh and wiggles closer to you.

What do you do? Your mind starts to race. On one hand, you have absolutely no problem with this turn of events. But on the other, you’re so bad with physical contact that you worry you might scare your boyfriend away.

 _Boyfriend..._ the term makes you a little less apprehensive. This is what couples do, right? You just have to learn.

“I can see it,” you say absentmindedly, and Mettaton giggles. When he laughs, he leans even closer to you, his hips nudging your side in a way that makes you feel like an idiot for even _considering_ that line of thought. 

“We should doll you up sometime, darling,” he muses. “You’d look perfect in a dress and stockings.” Then he grins, white-toothed, and his tone is so suggestive you blush even harder than before.

“I-I...that sounds cute,” you get out, your eyes boring a hole in the carpet. Onscreen, Danny is singing plaintively, and you’re trying to keep up a semblance of watching the movie when you feel Mettaton’s hand stroke the underside of your chin, his fingers brushing the hollow of your throat. 

“Of course, it’s not like you need it,” Mettaton purrs, his hand sliding down to play with the collar of your polo shirt under your red bandanna. “You couldn’t get much cuter than this.”

You swallow, _hard,_ and frantically hope that Mettaton isn’t looking at your lap. You can’t think of a good answer, but luckily you don’t have to, because your involuntary action is all Mettaton needs to keep going. 

“Aww, your whole face is red, sweetheart,” he murmurs playfully, getting up on his knees so he can toy with the buttons of your shirt. “Do you like it?”

You try to answer, but all that comes out is an unintelligible mutter. The other boy snickers and all of a sudden he’s breathing into your ear, one of his hands at your shoulder, the other at your chest. Your attempt at a response turns into a short, sharp moan, and you’d be embarrassed except that nothing has prepared you for how good it feels for Mettaton’s cold hands to brush your collarbone.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he responds playfully, and brushes a kiss into the shell of your ear, his hands still unbuttoning your shirt. He’s moving so fast--this was kind of what you were afraid of-- but you’re not complaining, either, especially because your embarrassment is being overridden by hormones, you guess. 

“I’m s-sorry,” you stutter, and your vocalization of actual words makes Mettaton stop and look you in the eyes, concerned.

“Why, what’s the matter? Are you okay?” he asks, his eyebrows creasing tightly together. “Should I stop?”

“No!” you yelp, loudly enough that you’re sure someone else would be able to hear you, as if there was anyone in Mettaton’s huge house. But no one’s there, and Mettaton just smirks mischievously again. Before he can render you voiceless again, you continue, “I’m just...I’m no good at any of this. I feel bad.” So much for being confident.

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that, sweetheart,” he says slyly. “I don’t mind as long as you don’t.”

“Are you sure?” you ask nervously. “I mean, I don’t want to hold you up or anything, like--”

In answer, Mettaton gently places his lips on the side of your neck and kisses you, and it’s like a firework has gone off behind your eyes. You loll your head back, torn between feeling utterly mortified that you’re so easy to please, and confused because how in the world could neck kissing feel this good, honestly--

When he adds the slightest touch of teeth, you gasp sharply. He moves down your neck, making you ball your fists in the effort not to cry out again. But when he gets to your collarbone, his lips linger there, biting just lightly enough to leave a mark and to make you groan, shifting your weight back into the couch.

Mettaton leans back and looks at you, grinning impishly. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then thinks better of it, and just climbs on top of your lap, straddling your legs. Moving his hips down, he presses into you, putting both his arms on your shoulders.

“Ahh--Mettaton,” you get out, sure by now that he’s noticed your massive hard-on, “W-what are you going to do--a-about--”

“Don’t worry, darling,” he murmurs, his voice slow and sultry and the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard, you think. “I’ve got this under control.” He leans down and kisses your neck again, and you briefly lose track of reality. Then you feel his hands against the outline of your dick in your jeans, and the slight touch of hands that aren’t your own almost makes you come before he’s even taken your pants off.

Jesus, you’re so easy it’s embarrassing. Mettaton barely has to touch you and you’re already almost there. His lips move down your body, teasing your nipples and making you whine in a way that you never thought you’d hear coming out of your own mouth. “A-ah--f-fuck--”

“What’s the matter, precious?” he coos, lifting his mouth from your skin briefly. His hands run over the buttons of your jeans, snapping them open. As he slips his fingers down your pants, he slides his other hand in your back pocket, grabbing your ass. “Have something you want to tell me?” 

_“Oh,”_ you moan, feeling your hips buck as Mettaton gently takes your cock in his hand. “M-Mettaton--I--” 

He runs his hand down the length of it, slowly and then faster. It doesn’t take much; you weren’t exaggerating when you said you were close. Within seconds, your hips are thrusting wildly, and Mettaton is rubbing faster and harder, and you’re moaning so loudly you hope the neighbors don’t hear, and behind your eyes it’s just pure white and one word-- “Me-Mettaton-- _Mettaton_ \--”

You arch your back and cry out as you cum, and sink back into the couch, your hips still bucking weakly. As you come back to earth, you hear your boyfriend giggling, and look up to see him licking his fingers with a wink. 

“That was fun,” he says cheerfully. The enormity of what just happened is starting to hit you. Your face is so red you feel like you’re about to explode. “You’re adorable, Papyrus.”

Of course, the first time he uses your actual name to your memory is after getting you off. You’re mortified, but now find yourself much more amicable to this whole “Netflix and chill” thing.


End file.
